Shadow of Your Smile
by Bright Ophelia
Summary: You spend a millennium, a lifetime, perhaps a century with her. Perhaps not; you can't remember. Neither will she. So you leave, set for revenge with sand in your hair, desert heat throbbing at the back of your skull and the shadow of her smile. Sometimes; one moment in a fraction of a heartbeat, you wish you stayed.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

**A/N: **Nothing is mine. Let's get this straightened out first okay:)

Anyway, this is something I have obviously never done and I should really be doing my other story, which I reached a sort of writer's block and conflict of values with how I will carry on with the story. Still blocked, I wanted a break and this came to me last night, hurrah for inspiration.

The main themes of this are compassion, self-examination, loneliness/solitude and linger.

It started out as a character study, of Loki falling and then grew... bigger.

* * *

**Prologue: Falling**

_I've fallen out of favour_

_And I've fallen from grace_

_Fallen out of trees_

_And I've fallen on my face_

_Sometimes I wish for falling_

_Wish for the release_

_Wish for falling through the air_

_To give me some relief_

_Because falling's not the problem_

_When I'm falling I'm in peace_

_It's only when I hit the ground_

_It causes all the grief._

_Florence and the Machine - 'Falling'_

* * *

Space.

In your childhood you were told of the infinite majesty, the wonders and the horrors, the glory and the ugliness of the cosmos. You were told of beings that were too terrible to even speak of, beings that were from myths and legends of your gods and beings that could supposedly travel through time. In your memory there are stories of places that made you feel happy, places where fires that burned forever, and corners of the universe that never saw the light.

You listened eagerly (eagerness, the intellectual sort was a prominent trait of yours, you recall) to all these stories told to you and when they weren't enough you sought out more in the library, looking for forgotten lives in the pages and pages of ancient books. A lone boy amongst the forest of books and shelves, hidden in the shadows of the archives.

Perhaps that was the beginning of you; always alone, in the shadows. You heard the sounds of others your age testing out their weapons and fighting against each other but they were of no interest to you. The librarian, an ancient woman that smelled like comfort and dust once called you an odd boy, puzzled by the pale thin creature your were, with the striking black hair. She asked you why such old tales that even the scholars gave only a few sparing glances to would be of interest to a young thing, who should be outside in the sun, sparring with his fellow companions. You shrugged slightly from your corner of the library and gave her a mischievous smile. She did not ask again, as your eyes told everything.

_I want to __**be**__ the universe._

Centuries later, that wish comes true and you think out of the many names_; galaxy, universe, cosmos_- truly, _space_ is the most fitting.

That's all there is, space.

And the wonders you dreamt of, the majesty and glory are not there. Only the darkness and cold exists, reaching out forever.

* * *

Falling.

You have fallen many many times.

Too much actually. You were clumsy and awkward in your younger years as you recall. You were frequently mocked for it. So you practiced grace, sturdiness, elegance and control so that you would not slip out of your own grasp and fall; literally and metaphorically. Still, all that was useless when Thor knocked you down, more and more as the two of you grew older. At first it was once, twice but you could knock him down too during those early years. But then the times you could strike back lessened gradually and then you knew better than anyone you couldn't knock down Thor at all. It was not cowardice; it was practicality and reality. His strength by far surpassed your own and if any chance you could make him fall existed, it was your magic.

Which was only met with jeers and often, contempt.

At times like that you stood on the tip of a blade, not knowing how to feel. One side told you that they were right; it was due to your own pathetic weakness that you had to resort to mere 'tricks' as they called it, cowardly trickery. But another side shot up like thin fountain, scorning at you for believing such a thing. Your magic was not a mere 'trick'; look at how hard you strived to master it. Manipulating the elements to your will, to the right degree and effect, the control of how much power you bestowed on your spells was not trickery. They were not skills that could be learned overnight or achieved by just hard work either. Diligence was necessary but a part of it must be inborn. One must possess a spark; talent.

You had that.

Your reputation as the greatest sorcerer of all the nine realms did not drop onto your head out of the sky one day.

And, the scornful side said, how many times did your spells and 'tricks' save their lives when they were dragged out to impulsive quests by your reckless so-called brother when he attempted to swallow more than he could take? What if you had not been there?

Sometimes, mostly when you were young, the passive side, pressed and afraid of the jeers, spread through you, making you feel dreaded and unwanted. You cried quite often in solitude in volumes or in silence.

It did not matter; no one heard your tears.

Other times, as you grew out of that crying child, a sort of tenacity built up inside you and the scorned side dominated your mind. You lashed out back at the jeers, in defence of your pride and hard work. You did not cry any more, you did not let yourself fall. You absorbed all the pain in, twisted it and expelled it in different ways.

They were tricks, simple spells cast on the ones that held you as a thing of mockery. It drew out laughs and entertained the rest, and you experienced the strangest feeling; you felt as if you had been kicked then embraced- alienation and acceptance. That was probably where you penchant for 'tricks' and reputation as mischief maker started.

Another way of expelling the pain that you absorbed was words.

Yes, the very thing that bought the other characteristic you were known for. If you were having an unpleasant day the words would be sharp and acrid, if you were feeling humoured by their silly words it would still be razor sharp, but laced with clever, dry wit. This would also drive out laughs, glares (from the recipient of your words) and silence.

No one had their way with words as well as you did.

Silence was the one that pleased you most as it gave you an overwhelming satisfaction enough to forget the pain and swell up a sort of pride at yourself. That was how your appreciation and fascination for the power of words started; an acceptance that was only shared by yourself

So, falling is not a stranger to you. Nor are the after effects of it, the scratches, bruises, cuts and pains a novelty. You have learnt by experience how to deal with them.

Falling ends. The suspension in mid air before the impact is only momentary and bruises fade, cuts heal and pain goes away.

However, that is not the case this time.

You are falling now, down down down, but you do not stop.

It feels like flying but you know what flying is. Flying is to have control in your destination and the heights you reach. Flying is soaring in the skies, in _space_ by your own will.

The choice to fall into this may have been yours, but everything else is not.

Everything around you screams and you cannot see, blinded by the frenzy and the brightness. You are sure you have gone deaf, and the only thing you hear are you own thoughts and memories. You cannot feel your own heartbeat or the wrenching pain that clutched it as you let go as it is flooded by the sheer force throbbing, humming around you. You thrash about and try to scream, but your throat is sore due to the screaming you did up on the bridge-

There is a reason you are in the heart of an explosion, with the screams, the lights, and tiny fragments of the Asbru Bridge scratching at you face, hands- everywhere. It rings in your head- why you fell, and a twisting pain sears up in your chest and touches your mind. The terrible truth, the realisation and monstrous acts-

It should hurt, your body tells you it should, the pain of what has happened in the last few days should rip you apart and kill you but it cannot-

The sheer physical cataclysm exploding around you swallows and churns you around mercilessly and a voice in your head shakily tells you that you are in the middle of one of your doings, gone terribly wrong, the worst thing you have ever done in you existence-

You head spins and terror grips you, you scream, you beg, you weep, you pray to your god, your deity, just to be let go.

Stop.

You want this all to stop, to die, if only it would all stop. Death would be welcoming to the pain and terror that engulfs you. You-

No, perhaps it shouldn't stop, you should fall. The only thing that stops you from remembering the terrible thing you did, the cause for all this is the falling. If it stops the memories will come back-

It blinds you and you wish to go mad, to forget, for pain to stop.

You are falling, falling, but there is no impact, only the falling.

_Let me go._

* * *

After eternity, after your death, the impact comes, shaking and embedding itself into every fibre of your being. You feel something graze you and crunch beneath you. Something tickles your face and it stings.

The last thing you see is a pale splash of soft navy and you can feel it growing dark.

* * *

The air is cold and everything is still.

A few neon signs illuminate the early evening sky but despite their fluorescent buzzing, the bleak-blandness of the town is heavy. A woman is at the end of the street, carrying two plastic bags with her; a week's supply of groceries. She is weary, the fatigue evident in her eyes. The cool evening wind tickles a few strands of her hair, wanting to play but she ignores it, hurrying towards her observatory. She hops onto the pavement as truck passes her and stands on the lone block, watching it disappear around the corner. She lingers, as she catches a glimpse of the horizon. Despite the desolate landscape, she finds it beautiful.

Why?

She can see the sky, the stars, and the dust clouds swept up by the desert wind trying to float towards the sky but never reaching it. In that, is where the beauty of the desert lies. And right in the middle of the vast emptiness is Puento Antiguo, like an island in the desert. Not all islands are in the sea is what Erik told her when they first came here.

She blinks, and for a moment she thinks-

A sweep of the wind brushes her and she ducks painfully as the mix of dust in the breeze latches itself onto her eye. She blinks furiously, trying to cry the dust out and rubs one eye cautiously with the back of her hand. She blinks a few times again and the dust is gone.

She stops, to remember what she saw in the sky but another swish of the wind reminds her it's getting dark and she scurries off to her observatory. She struggles inside, carelessly placing the bags on top of the numerous pieces of paper scattered on the table. She drops onto a sofa, surrounded by the eerie blue light of the evening.

The light or shadow, depending on how you put it, before evening turned into night. A single golden moment that signaled the time for electric lights to be turned on. Her hair hangs limply, unwashed for the last few days with grit and sweat embedded in it.

She needs a shower.

And dinner.

She can't bother to get up though, she is ridiculously tired today.

She looks around, making out the shapes of her equipment one by one. They are her only companions now. Darcy has left, Erik is god knows where and it's just her. She doesn't mind being alone but with the company she's had the last few weeks-

Her head unconsciously turns and her gaze reaches beyond the panes of glass and onto the street, the desert, the sky.

Almost a month but nothing.

She sighs a little and smiles grimly to herself. She was so hopeful, ready and believing. She thinks he will keep his promise but wonders slightly if it might be within her lifetime. Doubt is subtle but strong.

Despite the few days, she had the feeling he would keep that promise and honour it. So she brushes the shade of doubt out of her mind. She tells herself that something must have happened; she saw the sky churn itself into inky greyness- it can't have been good. A feeling of apprehension, disappointment and longing, of hope laced with a slice of doubt is what clutches at her when she looks up at the sky.

Hope.

She had so wanted to see it; her dreams of another world come to life.

It is maddening and excruciating but it is also what drives her.

Because she was right, all along despite what everyone else said, every time she was laughed at-

She looks around at her precious research, completely engulfed in the dark. Time to turn the lights on. She gets up and feels her way for the switch. Satisfied, she sits back down on the sofa, and continues to look up at the sky.

Her research and equipment, even more precious after she lost it once and he got it back for her. The thought of the day as she watched it being taken away still sends shivers up her spine. The thought of him handing her notebook, caked in mud makes her smile.

He is a good man, she knows, the man who showed her a glimpse of the possibilities and told her not to give up, that she was right-

He'll keep his word. A vague hope and promise but he was sincere and even with the unfavourable circumstances she hopes, just a little.

And even if he may not come, even with that chance, she'll find her own way into outer space, and open up her door, lay her own bridge to the stars. She'll reach the stars that she spent her life gazing at through telescopes. With the confirmation and confidence she'll get there, somehow. She's come this much in an undervalued field, under no funding and all skepticism, she can go further.

With a bursting ecstasy humming in her veins, she gets up, with one last look at the sky.

Shower, bed. Right.

And tomorrow, she'll start another days worth of research. Maybe after the days of research, whether it be dawn, midnight or in the afternoon, she'll spare five minutes and drive out into the desert and look up at the sky.

And perhaps one day the sky'll open up and she'll see that other world, go through the quick way and find the answers to her questions.

The realm of the gods.

The idea makes her tingle- she can't help it, help being human. But until then she'll have to go the slow way, building up that path with her own accomplishments.

Picking up a clean towel on the chair next to her Jane Foster heads off to take a much deserved and needed shower.

* * *

**E/N:** Two very different people with two very different feelings. The contrast is almost tragic.

Jane is hopeful and driven but she doesn't pine. That's why I like her. At the end of Thor, she cries which I think lies in the disappointment of having her lifetime dream unfulfilled when it was so close rather than Thor not coming back. Maybe a small bit of the latter. The two of them seem more like a crush not anything deep (three days!). A sort of 'you made my scientific dreams come true thank you so so so much' kind of crush. I think she can spare a few minutes to hope that Thor will come.

Anyways, review sweeties!


	2. Chapter 2: Fragments of Moments

**A/N: **Oh goody, reviews and follows:) Thank you so so much lovely people;) Now on with this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Fragments of Moments**

_Is this the real life, is this just fantasy?_

_Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality_

_Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see_

_I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy_

_Because I'm easy come, easy go, a little high, little low_

_Anyway the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me, to me/_

_Too late, my time has come_

_Sends shivers down my spine, body's aching all the time_

_Goodbye everybody, I've got to go_

_Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth_

_Queen - 'Bohemian Rhapsody'_

* * *

She has three million dreams in the space of time she has before she hits consciousness but she remembers two, which get mashed up with each other in the process of reaching for her alarm clock.

* * *

_She's running down the aisle in her wedding dress of all things. She was about to say her vows, and then she remembered that she left her equipment on and the calculations should be finished by now._

_Oh damn._

_Panicking, she hitches up her lovely white skirts and with a mumbled apology dashes out the door, not even looking back. She doesn't even trip, thank goodness for learning from her mistakes- and catches a taxi, full speed to her lab. She hops off the cab and skids to her observatory and slips on the wet floor._

_Who did the mopping?_

_The question doesn't have time to set in as she falls spectacularly in slow motion- enough to make the Matrix bow its head in shame and-_

* * *

_She is on a dampish grassy hill with a blanket wrapped around her. Her mother is calling her but she pretends to have not heard._

_The sky is glittered with brilliant colours, and something isn't right but she only realises that after waking up. It's like someone dumped every tube of lip gloss her next door neighbour owns and scrubbed and blotched them across the sky._

_Hot cocoa is next to her in a giant mug that's bigger than her face and too much for her tiny hands._

_She can't take her eyes off the glittering lights- this night will be forever._

_Then on the horizon she sees it- a giant column of energy shooting down like a pillar. She gawps, mesmerised._

_Out of the corner of her eye something brilliant and green shoots almost straight up to heaven, twisting itself around that giant column and ascending-_

_Not just heaven, to space-_

_She wants to go there too._

* * *

To your sour disappointment, you are not dead.

At least in your disorientated judgment you are very much alive and in the middle of nowhere. The world never seems to work to your favour, even at your most pitiful and weakest. You wished for death and it gave you life. How very considerate.

The taste in your mouth is sour, like the rest of you and your throat has shriveled up. You lie like that, nailed to the ground waiting for anything to happen. You do no care what happens at first.

However, times passes and with each growing moment your heartbeat is still there, and so is the rest of you. The light in the sky is pale but growing brighter more and more rapidly. You vaguely wonder where you are but that thought is pushed out by the growing awareness of a rhythm between your ribs. You let it flow and come back to you, the acute pains all over your body, the harrowing feeling of the wind knocked out of you and dullness in your chest.

The first time you realise that there is still life in you is the acute pain you feel as a gust of wind hits your face. You grimace as grit hits the side of your face and some enters your eyes.

Now you know why rocks erode over time.

It is the only fresh feeling, sharp and definite. You cannot move an arm or even a finger- everything is too heavy and instead, you try to cry out the grit from your eyes. A wince escapes your lips, but it is smothered by the whistling breeze. You keep your eyes tightly shut.

A louder sound is drawn from you as you feel something digging into you painfully.

It takes what is left of the threadbare ends of your consciousness to drop a single arm to the source of the pain. You fingers are soaked in wet substance and you know instinctively that it is your blood. You feel around helplessly and lay you fingers on something sharp.

Ah, a piece of the Asbru Bridge.

You want to leave it, but your fingers grip the give now useless shard and tug at it, clawing like some cat. You feel more blood dripping out as the piece is plucked from your body and you think it was a foolish move.

Think.

The most difficult thing for you in your state. The exhaustion is overwhelming, numbing you and suffocating you. Your head feels as if it has been smashed against a rock then hastily put together by a child. The impact of your fall still echoes in your bones. Your armour that protected the complete mangling of your body is also suffocating it now. Something trickles down your face and drips somewhere next to your ear. Your breathing is ragged, harsh and you wonder how many ribs you have broken this time. You have had your share of injuries and pain but none of them measure up to this. You can feel every ache in every part of your body but at the same time you cannot feel anything- you feel too much.

You let out a feeble, half-chocked gasp, and make a quick decision. Your amour is definitely doing you more harm than protection and you think you will die of asphyxiation before your injuries. With as much concentration you can muster you take a deep breath.

You feel it disappear as if it never existed and you let the strings of your concentration go. You feel strength ebb away from you like a candle and it does not hurt. Relief overcomes you and sweeps you with a streak of giddiness.

Peace.

* * *

A half-scream/shriek erupts croakily from her throat.

Two in the afternoon, oh damn-

She hasn't slept this much since college, but even that was after huge amounts of alcohol consumption. This is just ridiculous. Her hair is in such a state and she wishes that she bothered to dry it before going to bed. She sighs and slips out of the bed, shoves her shoes on and slips into the tiny kitchen for break- lunch.

Waiting for the toaster she washes her face and pulls her hair into a tight braid.

Wake up Foster.

* * *

Erik hasn't answered any of her emails (three) and Darcy has. Jane bites into her toast, spread thickly with cream cheese and scrolls down her laptop. She wonders for a moment if Erik is even in the country, or on the face of the planet. She shrugs, and decides to wait. She's good at that, waiting. After all, collecting data and anomalies required a lot of sitting around, watching and scrambling. She shuts her laptop in resignation and steps outside.

Sun in the sky. Sand, sand, and more sand.

Typical day in the life of Jane Foster. She looks up at the sky and sees it is as smooth as the surface of a lake. _Dull._ The word rings like an ancient bell. She wishes for something to happen, for the sky to swirl and change colour, but that's just wishful thinking. Ordinary, human life is very plain, plain like her name and nothing spectacularly interesting happens. Things do not fall out of the sky one after the other like they do in movies or science fiction books. The one time it did was an incredibly crazy stroke of luck and the best thing that's ever happened to her, but it didn't look like it would happen again in a long while. She looks across the horizon, as peaceful (empty) as the sky and feels a sudden urge to throw something at it and scream. She fights it off or at least tries to. The almost unstoppable feeling of frustration is something habitual to her but she knows from experience not to let it get the better of her.

She knows her current state now is an almost funny contrast to the overly hopeful self last night. She sits on the steps of her caravan. She wonders if Thor's coming was a bad thing seeing as it was something that had to affect her to this extent. A part of her mind tells her she wouldn't have missed it for the world, and it is right. He gave her newfound hope and a completely broadened vision, but as the realistic and slightly bitter side of her tells her, she cannot always live off hope. She's had quite a bit of experience with hope, throwing herself at every opportunity, every hope she got since her early years. The rebuttals, scorn hidden within formal letters of apology in regards to funding for her research, the looks she got from people when she told them about her theories- mildly interested, sometimes sympathetic but ultimately merely amused at the whole affair.

Astrophysics has taught her the duality of hope- it's so pretty when you chase it and throw yourself into its path, you forget it's a possibility and mistake it for reality, something that will happen. She thought that she'd make groundbreaking discoveries, be accepted, share theories and passion over the yet to be discovered wonders of the cosmos- then the visceral twist as she watched friends from college rise to prestigious places and receive praise.

_But I worked twice as hard as the rest of you._

She doesn't think she is a particularly bad person. She may not be the best, but she tries to be a good person, to be a better person, going for what she believes in is right. But the very human and almost instinctive feel of jealousy that spiked her wasn't something she could contain.

Who was she to blame? It was her choice and she didn't regret the fact that she'd made her choices. But the reality of those decisions was painful reminders of what she'd gotten herself into. All the times she spent making her own charts and data because, well there was none and the trial and error she went through in making all her equipment were not thing she could ignore. The rejections leave their marks and to get up again is torture. Hope is a very exhausting emotion and at the end of it, her cynical side smiles in an indifferent 'I told you so'. The side she dislikes because it is so truthful, its perceptions strengthened and sharpened over the years of being orbiting around the main scientific community in endless circles.

She kicks the dust at her feet, and lets out a cry of frustration. Her hope for Thor's return lay in her opinion of him in the three days- truthful, honourable and considerate, and his promise.

'_I will return for you'_

Then hello cranky cynical Jane, with all her years of experience and established philosophy on hope crops up and tells her to get a grip girl, promises can be broken, better stop hoping for him to come back because you know who's going to end with another scar.

The questions. She had so many to ask him, and even more piqued by Thor's description of Asgard. He had explained a few things as best as he could, but told her that the expertise of studies lay with his brother not him.

Oh yeah. The brother judging from the little she knew that had lied to Thor about their father's death and possibly sent the giant metal robot to raze a great part of Puente Antiguo to the ground. What was his name again, L-?

Jane mentally notes to look him up in the myths and kicks at the dust again. She wonders who would do such a thing to someone as good as Thor. Everyone has their reasons but still. She guesses that Thor's brother might be the reason Thor's taking his time. Oh damn him. She feels slightly dizzy in the afternoon sun and decides to get back into the caravan. She often loses track of time when she's wrapped up in her own head. Darcy told her quite frequently she thought too much. She misses Darcy's snarky comments. She misses company despite being more used to being alone. She shakes her head vigorously. She definitely thinks way too much.

Oh whatever. Hopeful Jane tells cynical Jane to shut up, he is coming back and get on with the notes she wrote up last night. The emotional conflict settled, she gets up back into the caravan and picks up a couple of wires, her laptop, notebook and an apple. The state of the cramped space is a mess and needs cleaning. She steps out of the caravan and strides over to the observatory, braid tossing along behind her.

* * *

_You are in a courtroom that is loud and buzzing with something you identify as thrill. Everyone is dressed ceremonially, packed in the seats of the round seats of the court. You wonder what all the fuss is._

_"Silence!"_

_Every single voice in the room disappears and their heads, like you, turn towards the source of the voice._

_Ah._

_It is the All Father, and a feeling of familiarity and disgust hits you. You wonder where the disgust comes from, you cannot remember. He sits in all his glory and you spy your mother on his left, Thor on his right. When he has the attention of every soul he has called for, he silently nods to someone in front of him. The person stands, and addresses you._

_"Loki Odinson"_

_Now the reason for your discomfort becomes clear. Why are you not there, along with your?-_

_"You stand before the court of Asgard, accused of high treason against the throne-"_

_In stunned confusion, you look around yourself and see that you stand in the middle of the round theatre on a solitary platform. This is your trial. And suddenly everything becomes clear._

_"-attempted genocide against another realm-"_

_You see every single face in the crowd, with their attention fixed intently on you. You see yourself in their eyes: hatred, contempt, indifference, disgust, horror-_

_"Do you plead guilty?"_

_Your eyes flicker to in front of you. You see Sif, the screaming fury barely held in her, Fandral and Volstagg with similar expressions of disgust and Hogun, grim as usual. And then the three people in front of them that suddenly look very, very ugly in your eyes._

_Do you plead guilty? You ask the question inside your head then fix your gaze on the three. Two seem to have the dignity to feel at least a little, ashamed. The woman and the man you once knew as your brother have tears in their eyes and your throat feels too tight for your liking. You look away. The man between them, radiating with age, is expressionless, he does not look at you. You heart drops to your feet, forgotten._

_The sins of the father, the silence of the mother, the ignorance of the brother…_

_Lady Sif and the Warriors Three-_

_The merry band of friends, tolerating but never true companions…_

_Do you plead guilty?_

_"No."_

_The gasp was expected, the cries of outrage, obvious. They all scream and tear at you, crying for your death. You know their words are foul and cruel but they drown in each others' contempt into one horrific sound that howls like a beast._

_Let them. Let them come. The liars, the traitors, the weak, the pathetic-_

_You already have counter arguments mapping out inside your head, the accusations are nothing, truly. Treason against the throne of Asgard? You were king, the rightful king; the treason was of those that called themselves the Warriors Three and Lady Sif. Your subjects that defied your command and went running to their favourite prince. Oh how they must have hated their new king. Genocide against another realm? The realm they all scorn and howl with malicious insults, the realm of monsters? And if you were truly guilty, how about their beloved golden prince who set off to slaughter them for sport?_

_"Execute him! The monster! He will be the fall of us all!"_

_One brave, or rather idiotic member of the crowd rises, screaming, pointing a finger at you. The masses behind him follow suit, like a colossal thundercloud and bellow at you, at the top of their lungs._

_"Down with the trickster!"_

_"The scum! That liesmith!"_

_"He will kill us all!"_

_The cry for your blood is stunning, and you wonder if you have had so many, so focused on you, so intent-_

_Despite the malicious words, the novelty is oddly amusing and somewhat satisfying_

_"He is innocent! A victim of Odin's lies! Robbed of his chance! Manipulated! Stolen and used!"_

_Another cry bursts from your right and you sit momentarily stunned at this. You have advocates._

_"Hear Hear!"_

_"The true liesmith is the All Father himself!"_

_"Prince Loki is innocent! Release him!"_

_This draws out fury from the ones calling for your blood, and the ones on your right stand up as well, in your defence. The whole court has taken sides, and are now roaring at each other._

_"Let him go!-"_

_"The traitor-"_

_"He's just a poor boy-"_

_"-murder, trickster, the evils of-"_

_"He was brought up with lies how do you expect-"_

_"Shame to the glory of Asgard-"_

_The Warriors Three and Lady Sif have split as well and are furiously clawing at each other._

_"-nobody loves him-"_

_"Kill him now-"_

_"Spare him his life-"_

_"He bathes in our blood-"_

_"If he had not taken action, the Frost Giants-"_

_"He was the cause of their trespassing-"_

_The sight is like nothing you have ever seen before and order is lost. Only chaos thrives, as you watch the same realisation hit the three people you hate so much. Blonde, blue eyed, radiant. And you wonder how you thought they were your family. A vicious swipe at your intellect, the one thing you took pride in. Their faces are struck with horror at the sheer volume and raw fury of the whole room. Their cries are like a giant wave, waiting to crash down, a volcano on the brink of eruption-_

_A grin hangs on your lips as the thrill hums in your veins and excitation sweeps you._

_Chaos._

_This is your element. You thrive in it; it is the essence of you, where your power comes from. You watch with ease and bubbling glee at the scene in front of you, waiting for the moment-_

_It comes, as every single Asgardian, except for you on your platform and the group of three, the ones you regarded as family tumble out of their seats and crash towards each other. The storm breaks out and your watch them, scream, fight and howl, leaping into the air then topple onto each other like a house of cards._

_You laugh, the first proper one in a long while and the terror on the faces of the three people before you, powerless as they are swept up by the torrent of people is refreshing, glorious._

_This is your victory as they cannot do anything but stand and watch. The very nature of chaos is invincible; you may try to stop it, but anything your attempt to cease it only aids in its growth. You laugh, the sound coming from the deepest part of you, gushing out flowing, shaking and filling every part of you-_

* * *

Beep-

You open your eyes. It is dark. You grope around in confusion and sit up. The only light is from the door, and a strange smell that is you are growing accustomed to pricks your senses. You look around and you realise that you are in the mortal's equivalent of a healing room, as you have been for some time. You do not know how long, except that it has been enough for most of your injuries to heal. The mortal time system is something you have not had the time to study. Mostly because you have spent your time in dreams, slipping in and out of consciousness. Yes, you are in Midgard, that much is sure from what you have seen in the few moments you have been awake. Your lips twist at the play of fate and you resign yourself to it.

You sit up and observe your surroundings. The sound that awoke you is from some sort of contraption, a machine that flashes three green lines fluctuating. This is the thing measuring your heart beat and that is as far as you know. The corner of your lip twitches in amusement. You can make out four figures in the dark. They are all sleeping. You spy a small child, hooked up with many wires to the contraptions next to it. Its mother is sleeping beside it, and even in the poor light, you can see the worry etched on her face.

A twisting feeling claws itself between your ribs and you are reminded of the woman you have seen in your dreams, the same dreams you've had, again and again. The look on her face as you caught her gaze across the courtroom pained you more than you'd like to admit.

'_I could have done it…'_

You realise the last you saw of her was in your father's - no, not your father. In _his _bedroom, as your - not-brother revealed your treachery. You didn't look at her; you couldn't. You did not regret your actions, nor did you feel shame in admitting to them, but you were not sure you could look at her properly.

You know you couldn't.

The silence is threatening, looming in your mind and the only sound you hear is a scratching sound, in steady intervals. You look around and see a round thing with twelve numbers and three lines. Two of the lines are still and one moves, which you presume is the source of the sound. You guess this is something that tells the time. But it is meaningless to you. A primitive mortal contraption which you are unfamiliar with like everything that surrounds you. In the silence every second fills the gaps and tugs at you. Nothing, there is nothing that reaches you out in recognition or comfort. The closest thing you have to attachment is the bed you have spent the days sleeping in. You may look like the mortals, or rather the mortals look like you, but that does not strike you as a source of assurance. Looks are superficial- they are mortals, you are Asgardian-

_No_.

The truth of your heritage rings at the back of your mind and you realise that you are not even that. You are a Jotun, which looks Asgardian, amongst mortals.

Who are you then, truly? What are you?

_'…I'm the monster parents tell their children at night…?'_

The careful strain in your heart is all too familiar, and the choked feeling suffocates you. This kind of pain is something you have experienced quite often the past few days but it has never been as clear as this.

In the strange room, you sit, slightly hunched amongst the sleeping mortals. You are wearing some sort of flimsy gown that hangs limply on you and reeks of the same acrid smell that lingers in the air. The darkness swallows everything and only three sounds, your heart, the contraption with the three green lights and the round plate-like thing that marks every second are the reminder of your existence. You clutch at the pain in your heart and you want nothing more than to just rip it out. You feel. It tells you that you are alive, living.

It means nothing to you. Not when you care very little for it.

You are accustomed to solitude and spending long periods of time alone but even amid the sleeping mortals never in your life have you felt so alone. The intensity of the emotions that have latched itself inside you are maddening- fear, isolation, apprehension, and fury.

There is no one who knows of you, no one who will answer you or call your name. The whole of Asgard will believe you are dead and therefore will never seek for you.

You are alive, but it has no meaning for you on Midgard. Perhaps you were his younger 'brother', but a still prince. A prominent figure in the most powerful realm of the nine realms. You had people that knelt and bowed before you and basked in the power you wielded. You had men that obeyed your orders and followed you into countless battles.

_Had_.

No man follows you, no being cowers or kneels before you. Whatever glory or anything you possessed no matter how much you were overshadowed by Thor does not exist here. You are the same, as every other creature in this room of sick mortals.

Nameless and meaningless.

You have always felt different, alone. Those days are nothing, compared to your current state; you did not truly understand what it meant to be forgotten.

Now here, in this small room on a primitive realm, you hold no meaning. You saw the mighty Thor, the one the whole of the nine realms feared and adored reduced to the likes of mere mortals and live with them, fall to their levels. The same fate has fallen to you yet this time for you, there is no hope of returning. The Bifrost is destroyed, not a single being here or in Asgard knows of your existence here or cares about it. You know that your name exists, in this realm but only in stories and fairytales, like the forgotten lives you spent your childhood absorbing.

A story-

* * *

Loki.

So Thor's brother is called 'Loki'.

Jane snaps the book shut but then opens it again, deciding to read more about Thor's family. True, they were only myths and would differ radically from real Asgardian history, but it was a start. The best she could get on earth anyway. And besides, myths had to be based on some sort of factual basis right?

She is on the roof of the observatory, a bottle of water on her right and a blanket wrapped around her. The current book on Norse mythology is open on her lap, as she sits cross legged. It's early dawn and the stars are in the sky are quaintly beautiful in a raw way. She slept too much yesterday and after a few hours of tossing and turning; she decided to do some reading. She hasn't read myths since high school- or was it middle school? And even then it was Greek myths. She vaguely wonders if Greek gods are real as well.

Oh god.

She started reading the Norse myths to see if she could find similar things to the Bifrost that Thor described. He said that where he came from, science and magic were the same. So, contrariwise, maybe if she started looking for the magical aspects within the myths, she might be able to get inspiration or translate them into terms of earth science.

Well that was her original plan.

Loki's entry is interesting-

_… extensive magic… possesses ability to manipulate magical forces for a variety of purposes, skilled sorcerer… illusion casting, shape shifter…ability to change into animals (?!), known for intellect.. expert schemer-_

Putting aside the fact that the pages on Loki sounded like a mix between praise and insult, if magic was the earth equivalent of science, then Loki, being the 'best sorcerer of the nine realms', bursting with magic was her best place to start. She supposes this is what Thor meant by his brother being a better person to enquire on the mechanics of their world.

Intrigued, Jane skips a couple of pages, then flicks back and starts reading carefully about Thor's brother. She pulls out a pen and scribbles notes, questions and wild theories on the things she's read, trying to find some sort of interpretation of Asgardian magic and link it with her astrophysics.

She knows it's kind of crazy, but that never stopped her.

* * *

**E/N:** He he, Loki don't worry, one girl is very interested in your story ;)

I don't know if it's just me but I'm kind of proud of how I've 'edited' this chapter. It looks really nice in my head, all the imagery. I wish I could film this:) If you get the feel that it was like a video, a film then I've done my work. My goal for this was to cram intervals of time and 'edit' them so that despite the gaps (hours, days etc) that the whole thing would flow smoothly and be linked.

My favourite (I like this chapter, everything in it but still) is the trial scene. And yeah, if you got it, I've got some of the imagery from the lyrics of Bohemian Rhapsody. I LOVE THIS SONG. Anyway, I know the song is up to interpretation but the mock opera part sounds like to sides arguing over the accused's innocence (or guilt). I kind of had a dream like this once and I wanted to write it and now I got a chance. Also it has elements of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland at the end where the stack of cards lunge themselves at Alice (the two parties for and against Loki flinging themselves at each other). So to sum it up, it's a mix of Bohemian Rhapsody, my dream and AAWL.

Tell me what you think and if you liked this review, sweeties:)


	3. Chapter 3: Anodynes For Solitude

**A/N:** Gah?! How long have I been away? I had exams, exams, exams, writer's block, deleted files, trouble coming up with the chapter title, block again... And some conflicts on where in the name of sanity I was taking this. I hope you like this chapter I worked hard on to hit the right note that I envisioned in my head. Not much happens but happens so... read!

And thank you so much for all your lovely reviews! I didn't know barely two chapter would get that much;) Hurrah for Lokane! All your reviews a favs inspired me to persevere so thank you so much you lovely people for reminding me that someone somewhere reads my work;)

* * *

**Chapter 3: Anodynes For Solitude**

_It's okay in the day, I'm staying busy_  
_Tied up enough so I don't have to wonder where is he_  
_Got so sick of crying, so just lately_  
_When I catch myself I do a 180_

_I stay up, clean the house, at least I'm not drinking_  
_Run around just so I don't have to think about thinking_  
_That silent sense of content that everyone gets_  
_Just disappears when the sun sets_

_And I wake up alone_

_And I wake up alone_

_And I wake up alone_

_Amy Winehouse - 'Wake Up Alone'_

* * *

One advantage about putting dignity aside is that you may act out of character. And no one will even know. Specifically in your case as you note with a hint of bitterness, the rest of the nine realms know you to be dead; in accuracy no one will be interested. The state of you, once prince of Asgard amongst ill and sick mortals, wearing the same items of clothing (that reek of the disgusting odour) as them is atrocious and humiliating. However, you have been given the advantage of anonymity- and according your brief moments of observation, humans are not as interested in each other as you think, and are very forgetful. The glances they give you at times disgust you but they do not linger for long. The only looks that are long enough to draw out discomfort in you is the ones of the sickly Midgardian children. Even they are soon ushered away by their parents to wherever their destination lies. For the first time in your centuries you were exposed to so many eyes and you did not sleep at all, trying to remain unseen. One night however, as you lay wide awake in the tiny excuse for a bed you understood that they see you; but they do not know you. You would take your own life rather than let any Asgardian see you in this state. However, to the mortals, you are merely just one of them, another occupant of this healing facility. An atrocious thought but you use it to your advantage.

That is what you have persuaded yourself. You have always been marvellous liar.

_(The truth, as you know is that you have know options left, nowhere to go.)_

And despite the miraculous speed you have been healing, your body still aches to such lengths that you are tempted to bite your own tongue out. It does not help that the climate of this region in Midgard is unpleasantly dry and warm and that your skin feels hotter and tighter than it should.

You clench your teeth as you shift to one side of the bed you are lying on. Whether it is due to the truth you do not wish to think of or because of the pain, you do not want to know. The bones of your ribs are still knitting together and it is much easier and less complicating to focus all your attention and thoughts on it. The drenched smell of chemicals in the air- called 'disinfectant' (You came to know this when the mother of the child on the bed opposite you told it when it asked "What's the funny smell?") is bearable at this stage. Besides, the sheets smell more of you then the disinfectant. It should. You've spend most of your time in it.

Still, you do not plan to stay in this place for long. It is only a temporary measure that you are forced to put up with. You are from a different realm, and for the primitive Midgardians this is something they cannot ever dare to grasp. Midgard is has changed considerably; only a little more advanced since the last time came properly. Yet, with their strange looking tools and machines that make strange sounds nothing much has changed overall and you cringe and wonder why Thor liked it so much.

_Pathetic._

You do not wish for the mortals to continuously prod you and touch you (you have never enjoyed physical contact) and staying longer will only raise suspicions hence they realise that you are not of this realm. They already have questions and doubts in their eyes and on the tips of their tongues but they do not push the matter; they are under the assumption you have acquired memory loss and you decided to play along and entertain them. It is an ingenious cover for the moment while you figure out your next destination.

You ignore the cynical whisper that tells you not to fool yourself. You will wait for a short while and leave. You ignore the numerous questions and doubts that are still unsettled and fall into sleep; somewhere in the edge of your consciousness a ticking sound marks the moments you have until blackout.

* * *

Despite the complete numbness that's slowly inching its way through the rest of the body, Jane doesn't move as much as a millimeter. She's determined to finish copying in the last section of the chart she's been boring holes into for the last god knows what how long. It's sheer will power and weird determination that's been enabling her to ignore the pins and needles that have been paralyzing her for the last half an hour and persevere with today's work. She knows she'll regret her foolish stupidity and already is but the accomplishment she'll feel in compiling the latest data will compensate, she supposes. There's goose bumps all over her left arm that's the one most exposed to the draft but she ignores it. She doesn't harbor and active love for the cold but it's a welcoming change from the dry, gritty days of the Puente Antiguo climate. She's used to huddling over a thin blanket sniffing like a three year old with a bad cold and revising her latest theory. Besides, her feet and hands never seem to stay warm, even in the summer if the air conditioning is too cold. It's quite a contrast to the rest of her body that's a burning lump of coal. She remembers the number of times Darcy wrapped her hands (resulting in a large yelp from her) around the back of her neck to warm her hands.

Jane gives a huge sniff and smiles at the memory. Funny how what seemed like an annoying occurrence then is now a fond moment. It was probably a sign of how much she missed human company to interact with.

With the last tap of the enter key and a few clicks Jane closes her laptop and places it gently on the table. The last light of the day hums gently in the corners of the room and she wonders at the vague ache in her stomach about what she'll have for dinner. To think of it she hasn't eaten a crumb since she woke up and its getting to her now. She forgets to feed herself quite often but it's even more frequent now, with no one to remind her or to share the food with.

She goes to the sink where a few days worth of dishes are waiting to regain their former spotlessness and she sighs, wishing that she didn't have to worry about small chores like washing the dishes and that she could just magic them all to clean themselves.

She closes her eyes and for a moment, wishes that the contents of the sink will be all cleaned up and placed inside their respective shelves. Unsurprisingly, when she opens her eyes again, the dirty dishes are still there, almost as if asking her, "Well what did you expect?"

_What did I expect? I just spent the whole day mapping out star charts and backing them up, I contributed to another corner of astrophysics-_

She shakes her head. She's talking to plates now, good god-

In resignation and for the sake of her sanity, Jane picks up the sponge a bit viciously and grabs the nearest bowl to start scrubbing.

Next thing she knows, she'll be trying to breathe/talk life into them like Sophie from_ Howl's Moving Castle._

* * *

The small scrap of pink paper that you took from a pile when one of the human healers were not looking (You have examined that healers in this realm are mostly female like those on Asgard but a fair share of them are male as well, which amuses you.) is in your hands as you wonder what to do with it. You cup it with one hand and bring it to your lips, whispering the first word that comes into your head. The small tingle that strikes the end of your fingertips tells you enough and you part your fingers to reveal the small thing in your hands. The scrap of paper is now a small insect; a butterfly, made of the same material and still of the same colour. It flutters its wings feebly, in an attempt to shake off its former inanimate state and adjust to its newly given life. Of course, it is not life; rather a very intricate mockery of it, one that will soon fade away when the effects of the spell wear off. Put that way, however, it doesn't seem very different to the actual insect itself; butterflies only live for a few weeks at most, and many barely make it past a few days. The small thing flutters its thin, translucent wings deftly, and the tiniest wisps of wind it makes brush the lines of your palm.

_You could crush it._

Scrunch it into a tiny, useless thing and drop it into the basket where many of its friends lie; old documents, records of the sick, discarded and torn, waiting to be thrown away. In that pile the small speck of pick would have no meaning, no different from the rest of the scraps of paper, no trace of ever having been animate. You could do that.

The thing flaps its wings more slowly, as if pondering on its next course of action. The movements are very real and gentle; almost like an actual butterfly. Despite the almost effortless step you took to breathe life into it and the fact that you have conjured far more complex and detailed spells, your small handiwork pleases you.

Or you could dot patterns onto it, expand its wings, change it into something completely different-

You could. It is your bidding entirely and the fate of this small travesty lies under your thumb.

You sense something and look around to see a small Midgardian child gazing at you ten steps away. The mixture of awe and curiosity on its face is typical of one of its age and its eyes that focus on the small thing in your hands occasionally flicker to you. The staring is unashamed and even when you catch its eye, it does not look away but stares boldly, anticipating your next move. Perhaps it is as curious as you are on what the fate of the small triviality will be.

You can feel the child hold it breath as you place a hand over your so called creation.

It stills as if it expects the worst to befall it.

It has the undivided attention of two beings, two beings that have significant interest in its fate.

Only the slightest pressure will extinguish any sign of mobility from it.

_You could do that._

You take another glance at the child and you almost burst out laughing, even if it means that it will cause considerable pain to your yet to be fully healed ribs. The expression on its face is of complete and utter sincerity and you do not remember the last time when one of your 'tricks' ever held such an earnest and truthful audience. Every emotion that flits across it is very visible and you wonder if that is a trait of Midgardian children or children itself. The child is completely oblivious of the fact that it is hanging on intently to something that is not even real, as if life and death depended on it-

In a way it is, and you remind yourself that children hold beliefs of absolute lengths about things they find interest in.

Or are told by their elders. Fathers, mothers…

You take away the hand again and the 'butterfly' is still there, waiting.

You wait for a single beat and stretch out your palm, where it is, so it may prop itself on a smoother surface. It stumbles a bit then takes position, moments before flight.

A flight that only two; you and that nameless child will witness.

You lift your arm and in one sweeping motion you raise it, letting it glide.

You do not know if it will make the flight. It has a very good chance of crumbling, falling to the floor only to be trampled by a clumsy foot of another Midgardian. Perhaps that child will pick it up.

Despite your brief concern, the small scrap of pink, after a few moments of tumbling flies and then proceed to float over the limited amount of space it is allowed. You watch it for a few moments, then turn you gaze to the Midgardian child that is over its head, trying to follow the quickly disappearing thing-

"Anna, come on. Daddy's waiting-"

The same nasal accent (that you have been surrounded by for so long that it does not bother you as much as it used to, yet makes you twitch at the discrepency) breaks through the din, and a Midgardian woman brimming with impatience comes to take the child away.

"But mommy, did you see that! The man he-"

"Yes, we'll be late for grandpa's-"

Not giving the child a chance to finish its sentence, the woman then quickly escorts it away, tugging at its arms. The child, almost hanging off the edge of its mother's arm twists to take one last look at you and you watch it go.

It breaks into a smile, momentarily catching you off your guard and twists one arm in a pathetic attempt at a wave. You do not answer back and instead stare for a moment until it quickly disappears around the corner. You lie back in your seat and resume what you were doing before the whole fiasco. Observing the Midgardians, their lifestyle and interactions, planning out your next act. You have never been the one to act rash and blending in wherever you were has been a great merit of yours. You perceive the meaningless, petty but subtly different habits and gestures of the Midgardians in the days and in the more recent nights, you explore outside your boundaries, beyond this facility you have been confined for so long. You have had all the sleep and rest you require and long periods of inactivity have rendered your movements to become slow and dull. It is a disgrace on your part and it only jogs the thinly veiled disgust you hold for your current state to leave it. You have watched and have actually visited in this region briefly but you wish to seek out more of it before you set do anything. The night time activities keep your mind off the gnawing pain in between your ribs and the poisonous spikes of self abusive thoughts.

Your little butterfly is flittering around, overly curious and currently circling the source of light, oblivious to what may come of its reckless actions.

Ignorance that stems from innocence after all is ruthless and cruel.

* * *

She drives at full speed seeing how fast she can kick up the dust. No one, no security camera is there to stop her and she's let all the windows down and the night wind comes soaring in, determined to sweep up every corner of the spacious van. The rippling air is deafening and she can barely hear her own screams as she roars around the vast sea of the desert, almost wishing to be in a convertible so that she might be engulfed in the torrent of cold night air. She's never been a rough driver and this whole crazy, jerky driving only started a few nights ago on a slightly alcohol induced whim but this is just exhilarating-

The closest thing she can get to a roller coaster in this area, but with the benefits of being the self appointed designated driver-

She stomps on the breaks and halts abruptly, shaking and tossing the contents of the van; herself and some boxes like vegetables on a frying pan.

She drops back on her seat and breathes out the clotted frustration and lets the trickle of sweat make its way down the side of her face. The night draft blows though the wide open windows at the right time and cools that particular side of her face and sweeps past the damp locks of her hair, drying them. The faint smell of lemongrass tickles her nose and she thinks, night time driving after a shower is the best thing in the world.

She watches her chest gradually lapse into a more even and relaxed pattern and steps off the van to shake a leg.

The sky is a brilliant shade of midnight and she walks away from the van, her eyes fixed on the wonders of the studded star lights. She feels small again under the earth's greatest collection of jewels that dangle high above her head too far out of her reach. Away from the artificial lights of civilization, for this one moment, she can relish in the bare freedom she's granted and enjoy the lights of burning balls of gas that died millions of years ago but are frozen in the time they take to reach the back of her mind. She can still see the specks of the dull fluorescent pink and yellow behind her but she dismisses them. What's up there is all that matters and even in the vast emptiness of being in the middle of nowhere she feels freer, much more alive and relieved than snuggling up back at the caravan. This odd ritual that's sure to bring about a cold makes her forget all her senses and focus them into a different sort; feel. She can do whatever the hell she wants and relish the tete-a-tete she has with the very things that she spends her days poring over. Not all answers are found in the pages of a book, the latest scientific journal or the corner of a chart. Some are found in solitude and she allows that moment to herself.

Inky darkness swirls above her and even with the dark swirls of black she thinks she can see other colors, dark blues, light blues, whites, greens, yellows-

A whirlpool of colors that shoot down from the heavens, a cataclysm, a godsend, a terrific calamity-

She wishes for one second that the same thing would happen again, just this once. It's almost impossible to keep even one foot on the ground when she's popped in and out of a fairytale, a myth-

She sneezes and the sensation goes right through her, producing a very loud sound. The instinctive fear of the possibility of catching a cold is too big a reminder and she runs back into the van, done with tonight's drive.

* * *

Midgard is primitive and plain at day but it is not much better at night. You wonder if it is the whole of this realm that is so distasteful of just this particular part of it. The only part of it you feel any emotion akin to familiarity is the dark mass of stars above you but it is altogether a strange experience. You have always seen the sea of lights rippling under your feet. True, Asgard had a sky like any other realm did, but the body of the universe always surrounded it, reaching beyond further than any eye or any instrument could perceive. It was a comfort and a marvel to see its limitless ends and many times have you have flown and swam in its depth. Now no such sea exists and it feels as if some giant hand has scooped it up and pinned it to the highest point from the ground. It feels as if your world has been turned over-

You grimace at the metaphorical and literal meaning of the phrase.

There are no torches or spells to guide you through the dark streets and though it is somewhat frustrating, it enables you to move though the streets without being noted by any other. The occasional beam or chunk of rock is an obstacle (You wondered why, then the image of the Destroyer you sent flickered past your memory.) but you steer yourself clear of them. The only source of lights is from a few structures scattered on the corners. The lighting of these structures is like the ones off the facility you reside in, dull and somewhat unreal. You turn left tonight and at the far end of the path you are on there is one structure that signals to you as a beacon. Like a moth to a flame you walk towards it, curious as to how many mortals may be in it. Even though these wanderings are your way of seeking solitude from the cluttered 'hospital', a part of you seeks for some sort of condolence within the quiet night that something, may still be somewhere, that you are not a ghost haunting thin air. You tread carefully towards the light; wary of what you may see. The humans will not see you; it is only an illusion, a copy of you tonight as your physical form is far back. Still it is your nature to be cautious, almost an instinct.

You reach the source of all your troubles and the sign above you written in one of Midgard's many many letters reads 'Izzy's Diner'.

Beyond the blank pane of glass where you are a literal trick of light you see two figures. Two females. One is standing, on the far right, wiping the surface of the table with a rag. One is near the other side, further on the left, with a small white cup in front of her, staring at it as if it might give her the answer she is searching for. She is surrounded by the same bleached tables spaced around her, all of which are empty and makes her (and you) seem trapped, isolated. There is a contemplative frown resting on her face and her eyes are downcast with a pensive gaze. Her locks of her brown hair fall gently to frame her shoulders but she does not seem to mind and tosses her head slightly. There is a single glove resting next to her one the table; carelessly taken off. Its pair is still secure on her right hand. You find this half finished step odd and wonder if her thoughts were troublesome enough to leave her with one glove off and the other on. Her arms are wrapped around her form tightly, as if she is feeling very aware of herself though there is no one to watch her.

_What is she anticipating?_

_Is she waiting for someone, has she lost a loved one, does she not have a returning point-_

Questions crop up before you can dismiss them and are pinned to her, one after the other. She lifts a hand and stirs the contents of the cup, as if trying to distract herself and she brushes another falling strand of hair out of her eye.

You lean in slightly at the glimpse of the curve of her left eye- A flash of recognition lights up and you start delving through your mind, remembering where you last saw it-

The woman stands up abruptly and the distant scraping sound is heard though the thin sheet of glass as she makes her leave-

'…_I'll pay her a visit myself!'_

She pays the other woman with a certain sum and a quick smile and strides out. You turn to watch her leave through the door and walk briskly across the street-

She stops for a moment and turns back momentarily in a sudden, swift movement. You come into your first glimpse of her full features, carefully silhouetted and lightened by the shadows. Her gaze is directed slightly to the left of you but it is the closest you have come to being seen properly. It does not last long but in that heartbeat, the sharp, focused look almost grasps yours and from your bed you almost lose the grip on the projection of yourself.

_Almost._

She shakes her head, owing it to the trick of the light, exhaustion, hallucinations, whatever the mortals like to put the blame on-

She walks away into the night to wherever her destination or home lies and you stay in the brightest part of the street where lights stream and no shadow exists, watching her small form disappear as it is swallowed up.

Back in your shared room you sit up, trying to contemplate how you of all people could have forgotten about the mortal woman.

_That _mortal woman that made your brother - him soft, changed him and prompted him to call out her name and beg for forgiveness as he destroyed the Bifrost-

He cannot see or reach her; he has no means of anything-

_You_ can.

In the hilarious twist of wicked fate you now are in absolute and secure access to something that the Mighty Thor with all his strength cannot possibly attain.

* * *

**E/N:** Squeak! I feel horrible for that last part.. dum dum. Just have to wait for the next bit won't we? Oh Janie...

I love writing yet to be angst ridden Loki. Do not worry about the lack of angst in this fic so far. Loki is MADE of angst and before this is even halfway through, you lot will be sick of angst I will shove down your lovely throats. But I suppose the ANGST is why people find him so intriguing. God us lot are so evil too! We relish in someone else, albeit a fictional one's (but still the feeling, the pain is very real - how was I to know that I would cry for the antagonist in a goddamn superhero movie?) torments and miseries and write stories of them!

Yes but I'm taking the 'it doesn't hurt right after the fall but the pain comes flooding in after you realise what's happened' approach. So not too much feeling yet. It's a more of a 'I know I'm hurt but I won't think about it right now because I KNOW it's going to kill me' currently so stay tuned!

Oh and a **STORY NOTE **for those who are interested, with Jane in the last part I was trying to go for the _Automat (1927_) by Edward Hopper. He is one of my favourite artists for I love the loneliness and the dull, fading feeling he conveys with his paintings. Yes I get kicks out of this kind of thing:)

What was Jane doing there? Maybe we'll know, maybe not, but our guess is as good as Loki's. Loki isn't guessing, he's_ projecting_ as people often tend to do, especially if given the right setting. If you don't know the painting go look it up; there isn't much in the canvas but it makes you feel terribly isolated as most of Edward Hopper's painting's do. He has a gift for that I think to draw out that mood, the blank silence and persuade us to guess, to project and make up stories for the subjects of his paintings.

Interestingly enough, as I was going through the Thor Director's Commentary before, I heard Ken Brannagh say that they wanted Puente Antiguo to convey that Edward Hopper-esque feel as they made the sets which is what I got I as watched the movie. Hurrah!

Review my lovely readers!


	4. Chapter 4: Voyeurs In the Observatory

**Chapter 4: Voyeurs In the Observatory**

_It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song_  
_You can't believe it_  
_You were always singing along_  
_It was so easy and the words so sweet_  
_You can't remember_  
_You try to feel the beat_

_Eet, eet, eet, eet_  
_Eet, eet, eet, eet_

_You spent half of your life trying to fall behind_  
_You're using your headphones to drown out your mind_  
_It was so easy, and the words so sweet_  
_You can't remember_  
_You try to move your feet_  
_Eet, eet, eet, eet_  
_Eet, eet, eet, eex_

_Regina Spektor -'Eet'-_

* * *

Some nights, Jane wishes she could give up everything and just leave.

Leave everything behind, in a pile or a huge dump that casts a huge shadow on the ground.

It'll definitely be there, but she won't look back.

She'll keep going and going, walking on and on. After an indefinite amount of time she'll arrive somewhere warm, where the sky is clear and a cool breeze tickles her cheek.

There would be a beach, a ten minute walk from a small cottage that looks like one she saw on a postcard on her father's desk when she was six. The memory is distant and slightly faded, but she remembers looking curiously at a crisp, glossy, stiff postcard, sent to her father by one of his old friends. She peered at the dreamlike picture on the front, a quaint scenery of this planet that had a different, captivating allure compared to the stars she craned her little head to see at night.

It wasn't a particularly pretty cottage but it was the first one she had ever seen, which latched itself inside her brain and remained as the standard for houses whenever she dreamed about such things.

She'd step out of the doors and run, treading on mounds of sand – the soft sort that slips through her fingers and swirls in the wind. Not the coarse, gritty sand that scratches and cuts into her flesh every time the wind strikes. Warm, soft sand, a pale pale yellow that looks like it's been bleached by the moonlight and tickle her the soles of her feet, caressing the soft flesh of her ankles.

In her fingers would be a blade of long grass she picked on her way down to beach. One blade out of the many knots that were clumped on the slope before the sandy banks. She'd twirl that blade around her fingers absently and drop it somewhere whilst enjoying the feeling of the tiny granules of sand pouring into the gaps of her toes as she takes a step. The salty air would fill her lungs as a high wind sweeps up her short hair (yes, she'd get a cut on the way to her fantasy beach) into a tangled frenzy, taking a whiff of her shampoo with it. The wind wouldn't play with her hair for very long; it would be no fun, seeing as it wasn't long enough to knot together.

She'd almost reach the beach by then, just near the fine line where the tide meets the dry sand, when someone will call her name. She doesn't know who it is or what they look like but it's someone she's glad to see.

A man? A woman?

A friend.

Someone who she enjoys the company of when they talk about anything; stars, sand, the frustration you get when you can never crack the egg right, the smell of toast in the morning. They won't mind how long she prattles on about her ideas and she'll listen with ease with whatever they have to say. They'll kick up the damp, salty sand with their toes, build sandcastles with their hands and fashion one hell of an intricate moat.

Some nights.

Because sometimes, the going through the cycle of slipping on same clothes that get sweaty after twenty minutes of wear reach the point where they threaten to tip her over the edge. They've been washed so many times and she doesn't even remember what color they were when she first grabbed them.

The underlying smell of… the desert is always there, not quite gone even after the hours of soaking in soap. When she remembers to do the laundry, her eyebrows go up as she runs a hand over the thighs of her jeans. The denim has become thin and smooth over the years and it's no surprise, with all the trooping around she does. Her hair bands have all snapped and now she's accustomed to putting her hair up with some elastic band from the takeaway two nights ago or even leftover string. There are scratches in her sunglasses and her computer needs to go through a pile of updates.

Usually she doesn't think about these things and pushes them out of her head.

It doesn't mean she doesn't notice them though.

Especially now, when she's reached a block in her patchy threads of information and has been banging her head on the desk for the last three hours. All those things she gives up and tolerates for her passion becomes all too visible and she wonders, if it is worth all of that.

Even if she doesn't dote over the latest 'it' item she has her moments when she misses enjoying things like that. Her clothes and her sense of 'prettying' herself is stuck somewhere in the early 21st century or possibly even earlier. Her clothes are always a poor imitation of the 'casual look' or rather the real deal; they are genuine vintage since she's had them for as long as she can remember. The tears and holes of her jeans aren't made; they're real ones and she can name a memory that matches up to each tear and rip. There's a faded blob on her favorite pair which occurred when she accidentally spilt some bleach when she was cleaning out the bathroom a few months back. She'd been silently mourning on the loss of her best pair of denim when Darcy, on one of her moments of brilliance, looked at them for about five seconds and asked for the pants in question. Jane had hesitantly handed them over and watched in horror as Darcy got a paint brush from god-knows-where and a small bowl with the disastrous liquid, dipped the brush in it and started flicking and dabbing blobs of bleach on Jane's jeans, Kandinsky-style. Jane's attempts were futile as she screamed protest and Darcy assured her that she was going to thank her later and that some companies did this thing on purpose, sticking ridiculous prices tags on it after. Her words stood true and instead of total disaster, there was a completely opposite result with her jeans improved and actually looking quite stylish.

Jane takes a sip of orange juice that is threatening to turn tepid and adds some more ice from the freezer. She drags her shoes back to the table where papers lie scattered and a large chart that she's been correcting is growing to the floor. She sits cross legged and bangs her head again tries to stop thinking.

She feels like a hermit, on the fringe of life, scientific communities, friends, civilisation –

It's been ages since she's seen anyone and even with all the work she's been burying herself in, the restlessness and repressed feelings are definitely there, churning up a storm and tapping cracks into her sanity.

With success.

She has a habit of mumbling to herself when focused, but lately it's not restricted to moments of concentration but all the time, to various inanimate objects. Her latest and most normal conversation was with a neighbour's cat she found snoozing on top of a chunk of rubble that was yet to be cleared. She feels herself slipping away but there is no resisting, no struggle or horror. A vague slap and reminder here and there is the stroke that tells her she's going slightly nuts, but overall, she's taking the going slightly mad thing pretty well and just letting it be. She gives her sanity or mental health less thought than the balls of burning gas billons of miles away, so far away to the point that they needed a new number system to be written down.

She doesn't mind, not really.

It's the turbulence and release she needs at times. She needs the random talks with the cat or her cereal bowl. She needs to go out every other night to the spot where her dreams first crashed down to earth (quite literally), she needs the mess and the chaos of numbers and tiny splattered specks waiting for her to come sit next to them to observe and analyze –

She needs all that to keep her going, ticking or else she might really lose it.

She might spill all she's held up to the brim, level and calm. She might think about all she's left behind, all that she gave up and dismissed – and all that left her.

So she keeps her mind busy to try not to think about it.

She knows it's one of her 'moods', moods that have happened frequently over the years. The random swing of emotions, PMS whatever you like to call it. The pointless and magnetic cycle of retracing every day that has built up into the present architecture of herself today.

She sometimes thinks of the bright eyed, intense girl, still not quite a woman, fresh out of college with her equally fresh bob cut and pins. She's dashing about and doing everything herself, not minding the smudge of dirt on her new blouse. She flies about making, improvising, revising, copying, staying up all night by draining a whole tub of coffee at the prospect of being something, new discoveries -

Yes, there's this girl who runs past her memory with the clarity of reflection in a gushing river. She has a smile in her face and stars in her eyes. Then the image of this girl becomes clearer, as she zooms fast forward into the nearer future where the flickering impression sharpens. The inquisitive and perhaps ambitious girl is now a thin, busy woman whose hair is not as fair as it used to be, the few hidden highlights being the only reminder that it was a lighter shade of brown. Her face is slightly anxious, as if worried that something might go wrong, though she's absolutely sure and has checked things over and over again to settle her doubts. The anxiety sprouts from the unexpected and shattering disappointments she's faced in the short period of a few years and has slowly but definitely planted itself into her psyche as a seed of self-doubt. It has worn her down and hardened her, carving away the passion, cooling it off and replacing the stars in her eyes with a slow, steadily burning fire that flickers as if flinching time to time. It's a subtle, secret change, but it's something that was never there in the girl with the bob cut. The girl who smiled a lot, believed a bit more and was a lot more daring.

Perhaps somewhere is that girl, under all that hardened armor of this woman she is now, hiding somewhere.

She knows that girl is there; she came out a few months ago with all her warmth, conviction, belief and kindness.

After all, there was a time she was less cynical and more open. That girl proved that fact and assured her once again that she wasn't completely gone. The faith and passion sprouted with life and blossomed over such a short time, enough to surprise herself that there was her old self still left in her. The surprise turned into a solid block of conviction, a firm, silent oath that Thor gave to her. He let her dare to believe, to be happy and relieve that burning dream of the stars again. It's not just his somewhat old-fashioned but incredibly charming and flattering manners she was taken by or his superhuman strength that he possessed that struck her. His encouragement and conviction in her, in her dreams that she'd guarded with near despair and the affirmation he'd empowered her with; that was it.

It was almost silly how she ended up crying at his sincere gratitude and the sight of the notebook he handed to her, having managed to grab it during all the trouble he'd gotten himself into. It was a rare treat to see such sheer sorrow and feeling in his clear blue eyes when he told her that he was sorry for her loss of equipment that she lost all hostility and mistrust she might have held onto. The first time in a long time she'd gotten a _"Yes, go for it, you're on the right track, you're doing it right.",_ instead of a cynical look or a badly masked expression of disbelief and denial. That was all she needed to throw all the bitterness into the fire in front of her and become that girl again, spellbound as she listened to him tell her about his home, the stars, scraps of information that sounded like her fairytale but was his truth, poring over that drawing he sketched out for her in her notebook like gospel.

It wasn't that hard after that to have a little more faith in her work and pick it up and embrace it with the fierce love instead of the defensive tackles she'd been throwing at it. She let herself blaze as Thor struck the match to light her up, and she felt abashed as he thanked her for her kindness. It was nothing special that she'd done really, just common sense for anyone that she might have hit with her car. He'd given her so much more but he didn't quite know how much. Perhaps he might, with the intensity of the last kiss they'd shared; her cheek blazes at the memory of the boldness on her part, in front of all those people. But she'd do it again, if only to tell him what he'd blown into her life once more.

That was of course if he ever came back.

He'd gone with a sweep of energy and dry sand, leaving a promise and the memory of soft, crushed lips and the fixed hope of seeing Asgard.

And now, the girl is gone, and the woman is left back to her old defences, being a creature of habit and newfound peculiarities. With the dust of the sun baked desert and musty papers, numbers, numbers, numbers –

She hopes again and again, replaying the last moments like a prayer, a cherished letter in newfound belief that he would come back, that he'll keep his word.

She only hopes that he comes back soon, and doesn't keep her too long. She secretly dreads that her newfound belief might be tainted and worn down again like the last one and be thrown into the loop of old, depressing memories. Absence makes the heart grow fonder they say, but not always; lately she's becoming a believer of 'out of sight, out of mind'.

She thinks it's because she's going through one of her slumps where she wallows in memories and sighs a lot. The one when she faces the truth and comes to admit it after running away from it and denying.

It's a funny dilemma; when she wants to forget herself and erase, if for a moment, the comparisons and could have beens that pop up in her head, she immerses herself in her work. Her passion, the stars and hypothetical theories – the reason she gave everything up. But nights and days of work, sleep, coffee, squinting can only last so long and she needs to drop that chart and leave it exactly where it is to throw herself down on the sofa and think of nothing else, be idle. The first phase; usually the best part when she feels relief of letting go of the constant brainwork. She breathes in temporary bliss as she relishes it but it goes as quickly as it comes. Then sweeps the wonder and once upon a times as she slowly sinks back into her 'moods' which keeps her mind off the jumble of random coordinates – but eventually leads her back to it through hatred as it is the cause of her brief misery she feels due to the sacrifice. A never ending cycle of obsessive working or dipping up and down the slopes of reminiscence. Either way, she's left with a drained feeling or hollow emptiness. The sheer exhaustion of having poured her whole into her work but never quite meeting the expectations of her dreams and goals leaves only a tepid drive. And the almost bitter-sorrow that spreads through her on nights and afternoons she wishes for company.

The realization comes so easily as she mentally punches herself for not thinking of it sooner.

That's what she's missing: company. She needs more than abstracts gases light years away and man-mapped constellations to soothe her and pull her through. Someone who shares the same streak as her and will go through the long, weary and lonely road with her. Trooping alone is a misery, but together is a different tale as the other provides the comfort for their companion.

She picks at her fingernails and gazes at the sun sinking lower in the horizon, the shadows growing longer. She's so wrapped in wishful thoughts so that when she picks up the orange juice, she hardly notices that the mug is heavier and it's no surprise when completely lets go in horror after trying to take a sip.

Of a solid block of orange juice ice, completely frozen in the mug.

* * *

Her name is Jane Foster and is not what you expected.

To say that is possibly the largest understatement of a thousand years, or the biggest lie in quite a while.

Her scream snaps you out of your focus and despite everything, a smile tugs at your lips as you feel the corners of it go up.

You have been in this building, some sort of observatory and study of hers for a while but she has not noticed. She hasn't even caught a glimpse of you, completely oblivious of your presence even though you are not invisible. Rather, the appropriate term would be 'imperceptible', it is far less draining for you and much more subtle. As long as she does not deliberately look for you or know what to look for, she will never know of your presence. That and you do not wish to consume large amounts of magic for the moment; any form of magic is traceable and even without you or your confirmed 'death', Asgard is not quite short of moderately talented sorcerers and you have no desire to provoke them of your whereabouts. Especially in Midgard, where magic is virtually non-existent in comparison to other realms, any source of noticeable magic will be a telling sign, a beacon.

However, though her ignorance works greatly in your favour, it triggers a fair amount of exasperation in you; a familiar disgust at her complete unawareness. Perhaps that is what Thor saw in her as a common trait between them. Even with that dubious similarity, it does not persuade you anyway to understand what exactly it was about this woman that was colossal enough to achieve something that not even you with all your constant and sharp words, the All-father and his discipline, his wife and her kindness and the whole of Asgard could do. In such a short amount of time, she - this ridiculously plain mortal, had changed Thor, made him better.

You have been moving about a few items here and there over the days you have been here, between the bouts of watching her out of curiosity as you followed her impulsively the night after you saw her walking into the darkness. The day after that, you traced her daily habits that began with this current building followed by the diner where you first saw her. She always at on the same table, consulting her drink to solve her worries by paying it her wasted time.

She goes there every single night like some ritual and you have been joining her for the past nine days.

She is gasping at the cracked cup in wonder and amazement, gingerly touching the frozen block of what was once her drink.

It was child's play to transform the lukewarm thing into a block of ice, helped even more by her inattention. The woman is so self-absorbed in her trivial thoughts that you could shatter the pane of glass she peers through in her moments of solitude; and she would not notice. Perhaps she might now, as you see a hint of fear in her eyes. Humans with all their irrationality, the same unchanging irrationality that terrorised their primitive ancestors to worship the whole royal family of Asgard as their gods still runs their blood. Even with all their instruments and strange tools, they easily swing to their basic instinct of doubt in the supernatural despite being the sole closed realm.

She sweeps back her brown locks with uneven blotches and shades of brown in them, picking up the object of question from the floor. She stands up to dispose of it and you watch from the seat you currently occupy, rechecking your observations of her.

Even amongst Midgardians, her figure or stature is nothing special; _moderate, normal, plain_. She is thin owing to her tendency of forgetting to eat occasionally as she loses track of time in her absolute concentration on her strange maps.

-_ A complete opposite to the tall, voluptuous and mostly blond females of Asgard._

Her garments are even more baffling as they are more colourless and shabbier than the rags that the servants use to scrub the halls everyday. She does not seem to mind this particularly. She often comes in with the rush of coarse sand and the late afternoon heat, sweating after some errand with her hair flying behind her like her battle flag. She does not seem to mind that either, always on her feet and moving around like an untamed animal. Her face is tanned; hardly alarming with the time she spends outdoors and is also thin, like the rest of her. It compensates a fraction for the rest of her, as you could call it moderately attractive, in Midgardian standards, but is again, nothing to the maidens of Asgard. You admit that each feature is prominent, from, the slope of her cheekbones to the curve of her jaw but the only relatively intriguing thing is her expressive eyes from which you can easily tell what goes through her mind.

So if it is and could not be her external charms or appearances, then what else is it about her that changed everything and ruined it? What was it about her that prompted him to destroy the Bifrost, even with the heavy consequences?

The simple jesting question that you only expected an hour or two at most to be done with is now an overbearing one that plagues and irritates you. It manifests in you and you fight back with perversity that grows into a must; the more you spend time in her presence, the less you understand and the more your hatred of her grows, as you come to the final solution that out of the many possible holes and flaws in your plans you had considered all but her. What should have been a simple step has now dragged on and it frustrated you to no end. When you make your next move, whenever it'll be, you will do something that involves her; you have very little at your disposal and she is too good of a chance to miss in many aspects. But currently you are stuck in between your next course of action and your former one, with her being the problematic tie between both as the moment you latched onto the idea of the asset she could become to you, you also realised the other role she played in your former act.

The one unexpected and completely unpredictable variant that was your ultimate downfall. The reason you are here, now on this godforsaken rock. It is not curiosity that drives you to pick her apart. It has become, you feel it, a necessity as you must know why and what it is of her that caused all this. Perhaps, you should not be so disappointed of your loss, a part of you whispers, for her presence was completely unplanned and sudden, like a burning star in midday. But no, you say back, you have to know why. You have lost far too much to pass it off and regard it as a small slip. You have never given up on your curiosities and questions since you were no more than a small child; you had to know every part of your inquiries, until your satisfaction.

_Learn from your mistakes._

There are so many and each one is a scar and a cut. To think of them all is to commit self-harm and pain and you are smothered in so much already. Not just the cracked ribs, knitting together, the dull thrumming pain in your head or the nightmares you dare not admit you have. It's not just the physical aches that trap you but everything, every sort of pain that you've experienced, every regret and flaw, every mistake –

You are standing on the brink of an imaginary beach (it is imaginary for you have only been to the sea twice in your life, so it is something of a memory) and the tide is coming in. It laps at your ankles, spitting at your knees and you try not to think about it because there is something bigger coming for you. You do not think about the past, of recent events for if you do the barriers that you have so carefully constructed will collapse pitifully like toy soldiers you used to play with. The tidal wave will come to consume, swallow and digest you.

She sits back on the chair she was occupying, only steps from you and wraps her small frame into a ball to watch the sun sink into a horizon.

_Sunset._

It is a sight you have seen before, but it is somewhat of a novelty on this realm, to watch it hide into the distant sandy banks, rather than a body of water. It rings in you that this is a different sun to the one you are used to watching, the one you watched and dismissed as an unchanging phenomenon.

The visceral hollowness threatens to push itself up your throat and you force it back down, determined to snip all connections with the ever present and intense isolation you feel with each passing day.

The daylight is almost gone, the tipping point before it is all sucked in with the burning ball, the signal that all will be pitch black soon.

You gaze through the barren streets that bare the remnants, the reminders of your doing and back at her.

Her eyes shine with the last of the lights that illuminate them in a softer shade, not the hard, piercing one that she usually has underneath all her charts and books. She is not looking at the sun, not quite, but above.

You know what, or who she is searching, thinking of, with such hope in her eyes.

You feel disgust and a hint of envy, that she could have the luxury to reach out to the heavens like that. You cannot, out of pride, pain, humiliation or whatever it is you may feel to express such positive and pure sentiments. Every single one that you have openly expressed or swallowed is tainted and poisoned, dragging up one violent emotion after the other. You hate everything, the whole of Asgard, the liars and thieves they are, your whole once family.

But you cannot come to completely deny or overcome the essence of what you once were and the sentiment that you held so deeply. That would require carving a part of yourself out when there is so little left of the self you had faith in. You have lost any faith you might have had in everything and everyone; even yourself but you cannot bear to abandon it.

So instead, to save yourself you look back at her and focus everything you have on her. Hatred is far more unconditional, far more powerful when it is latched to a single, specific figure, rather than a whole group of people and pasts.

You look at her, basking in deep shadows and walking over to light the spacious room filled with her footsteps and the two of you. You look, you glare, to forget for now what has happened. It will not last long and you are silently counting the days until you have the kick to face your current situation. You concentrate your all on her, even things you know she does not deserve to stop yourself from breaking down to that moment.

_However, what irony is it when she is the key player in your wretched misery and with that, all she can do is ventilate and restart the torrid, vicious cycle of the very thing you are turning away from?_

* * *

**E/N:** I am such a horrible writer. I had writer's block, and I wrote this chapter more in a few hours than the month I spent pouring over this and my other story. I've got block for that thing as well, though it's more of a plot-wise block. Plus the real life troubles including backing up laptop, updates, prepare to move house, new wallpaper... efdhvoidk;lfk -

I was totally LOST in how the hell do I do the next chapter of this then I realised that you guys still read and wait for this:) With the update intervals and everything this might as well be a series of one shots, but contrary to this every chapter is connected!

This chapter wrote itself, starting with Jane who ended up working out. Hehe:) It's funny, I keep drawing unintentional parallels between the two of them I never knew they had. It's weird isn't it? And it works so well? I think Jane's rather deep feelings for Thor is somewhat justified if you look at it from the 'he gave me new hope/conviction' angle. Strange, Thor's a god, faith... hehehe... I'm taking Kenneth Branagh's original idea of the relationship between Jane-Thor being a mutual crush/respect which seems more plausible and likely (Why does every superhero need a girlfriend slash love interest? Can't the guy have an equal partner who does not moon over him? Will it kill you Marvel?)

I ended up liking Thor more than before as I wrote that particular part about what Jane feels he did for her because if somebody did that for my life, as happy as I am now I would really harbour some very nice feelings for them.

Loki is so miserable, isn't he? He's supposed to be ha, like Imaginarian said, schadenfreude:)

Now by the end of this, he is kind of in a way living with Jane in a weird way... And as a random comment, being the DW geek I am, I had to do something (spell) akin to the perception filter (though there is already the 'Somebody Else's Problem Field'(I love this word:) in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy) as opposed to being completely invisible in Jane's presence.

Well, I'll leave you to this novel update and I'll be waiting your comments/opinions on this:) Lots of love, me.


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